


(Antichrist)

by sxr



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:55:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxr/pseuds/sxr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d been playing this game for a long time now. One year post-Spector and they were tethered—connected by a strange torment. Oh, how Reed had tried, in those first weeks following the case, to disentangle herself from Stella. But here she was, still participating in this this strange, off-tempo dance</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Antichrist)

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this relationship dynamic came vaguely from the song Antichrist by the 1975. Give it a listen it's good stuff.

Reed was tired; an incurable melancholy had taken her over, as it always did on nights like these. She watched Stella unzip her trousers and unbutton her blouse. They pooled around her feet like liquid and her bare body moved with grace. Reed had long gotten used to the novelty that was Stella’s body, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

She drew her knees closer to her chest and tucked one arm beneath her pillow. Lying this way, on her side, she watched Stella open the dresser, rifling through Reed’s clothes until she found a t-shirt of her liking 

“Come back to bed,” Reed murmured, eventually.

And Stella joined her, silently, shirt in hand. When she discarded her bra, Reed could not help but touch. Stella’s skin was warm and freckled and Reed she sat up, running gentle fingers across it, pressing her lips to a bony shoulder. Where Reed’s body had softened with age, Stella’s had sunken.

She allowed her mouth to wander, then, from shoulder to clavicle to breast. And Stella allowed herself to enjoy, to indulge, for a long moment before gently moving Reed away.

Falling back against her pillows, Reed resumed watching. Stella was a movie scene.

She pulled the t-shirt over her head and regarded Reed with the slightest tug of a smile (it never reached her eyes).

And Reed wanted to touch again; she wanted to feel the tautness of Stella’s nipples, the sharpness of her hips. She longed for the comfort of Stella’s body, for the solace of orgasm. But she knew better— tonight would not be one of those nights 

They’d been playing this game for a long time now. One year post-Spector and they were tethered—connected by a strange torment. Oh, how Reed had tried, in those first weeks following the case, to disentangle herself from Stella. But here she was, still participating in this this strange, off-tempo dance 

It wasn’t always sex, but it was rarely words-exchanged. Reed often found herself in London, and Stella in Belfast, not for any particular reason, but always knocking one another’s door.

And Reed was perpetually left in a state of unrest. How Stella needled her, how she aggravated her— her eyes always watching, her lips always pursed. Sometimes Stella cried, but it was just tears, never sound. Reed found herself constantly taunted by Stella’s silence. And yet, Reed knew she was being hypocritical. It was not as if she, herself, had taken the time to lick with her own wounds, let alone begin to verbalize them.

But she was tied to Stella, unable to escape their reality— Stella was, undoubtedly the only one with which she shared the horror of a life post-Spector. He’d left them both half-filled shells, mangled in their own private ways. And when they failed to verbalize, they _fucked,_ and it was enough— Reed was constantly convincing herself of this.

But tonight would be neither. They had nights like these, sometimes. And Reed understood, she truly did, but sometimes she felt a bit like a cat tempted with her cream, ultimately left hungry. She understood how Stella worked; she understood that sex, even, was at times too revealing an act for Stella. But how Reed longed. If Stella could not give her the emotional repose she so desperately needed, Reed yearned, at least, for the physical. But it was to no avail. She was eager— handsy, even. But she knew where the line was and she would not cross it.

Reed closed her eyes. She missed Stella’s body. It had been months since they’d last been together, and they’d left things on a particularly sour note.

Reed had been on the precipice of explosion before she’d even met Stella at the hotel. And then Stella had been bold and characteristically silent. She’d been kissing Reed’s bare breasts and working at the waist of her pants when Reed had shoved her away, a thick lump rising to the back of her throat.

“I need _more,_ Stella,” she’d choked.

And she’d hated herself the second she’d hit her.

“Darling,” Stella, wounded, had let Reed kiss her then, but it was all too much to bare.

Reed had left quietly, unsatisfied, half her shirt still unbuttoned. 

And now Stella was back, undeterred, and Reed was grateful, but things were no different. She still needed more.

“Come sleep?” Reed opened her eyes, pulling back the blankets, indicating for Stella to join her. “Please?”

And Stella obliged, finding Reed’s body warm and comfortable, tangling bare legs with bare legs. She reached for the lamp and sighed, plunging them into darkness. And then she nestled, her head on Reed’s shoulder, her palm falling across Reed’s neck and down the center of her chest. She felt Reed intake a breath and she knew what Reed wanted; she could not give, not tonight. She wasn’t sure she could deal with the way Reed would inevitably roll away from her afterwards and fall asleep alone. She could not face, tonight, the way Reed begrudged her for the resignation that kept her sane— she had never been one for self-disclosure.

She felt a slim hand come to cover hers where it lay between Reed’s breasts.

“Touch me.”

“Reed,” Stella warned.

And she felt Reed’s hand guiding hers sideways, beneath silky fabric, until her fingers were brushing over a dark nipple.

“Reed, _don’t_ ,” and she felt Reed drop her hand; Reed knew the line, knew not to cross it.

And she rolled over, her back to Stella, trying her very best not to be bitter.

“Why do you resent me like this?” Stella whispered, finally. Though she tried, she could not seem wrestle her insecurities into complete submission.

And Reed, though _she_ tried, could not manage to verbalize. She rolled back over and stared at Stella. She was prepared for a fight; her resolve was fading. But she saw in Stella’s eyes something different— something _new._ It was fatigue— surrender, even. Her eyes were wet and they were tired and Reed could not remain angry.

“Stella, why do you do this to me?” she asked, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Why won’t you let me go?”

“I’m selfish,” Stella was never anything but honest, and it left Reed reeling. “I’m sorry.”

Stella reached for Reed’s cheek, her mouth flattening into a tight line as she felt another hand come to cover hers.

“Forgive me,” Stella rasped, and Reed could see glassiness beneath her eyelashes, threatening to burst forth. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Don’t,” Reed whispered. But she could not continue, she could not tell Stella it was okay. It wasn’t Stella’s fault, she knew, but it wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay, and Stella wasn’t okay, and _they_ were not okay.

Reed was tempted, then, to kiss Stella, to forget it all and tear her clothes off and bury herself between Stella’s legs. But this would only leave them back where they’d begun, and Stella had already made it clear that tonight would not be that kind of night for them.

Reed swallowed the tension rising in her throat.

“Stel,” the nickname slipped out too easily. “It’s over— it’s _been_ over. He’s gone.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Reed sighed, dropping her gaze away from Stella’s face.

Gently, she pulled Stella’s hand from her cheek and rolled onto her back, running a solid palm over her face. She felt grungy, tired, and endlessly tense.

“What are we doing?” she asked, finally.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Reed turned her head, then, the cool pillow soothing her cheek for a moment.

“Stella, it _does_ ,” she paused. “It does to me.”

“We’re helping each other,” Stella offered, then.

“Then _help me_ ,” Reed pleaded. “ _Fuck_ me.”

She had allowed herself to grow too desperate, and she knew it. But she was reaching for Stella’s hand, shoving it inside her panties.

If Stella was phased, she didn’t show it.

“Reed, you need more than this,” she whispered. “I know you do.”

“Fuck me,” she repeated, and her eyes were anguished. “ _Please._ ”

And Stella could not leave her this way.

She was gentle, moving her fingers slowly at first, in languid circles. She moved closer to Reed and watched her moan unabashedly, her thumb moving over Reed’s damp temple. She knew she could not abandon Reed, as much as she sometimes wanted to; Reed was strong (in her professionalism and her motherhood and her womanly steeliness) but she vulnerable, left raw and manic by a case Stella herself could not seem to escape.

She touched Reed until she was coming hard and then she smoothed down the hair at the perimeter of Reed’s face that had become mussed.

“This isn’t what you need,” Stella whispered finally.

Reed did not respond; she was sedate. She knew Stella was right— they couldn’t continue on this way. The game they played was wretched.

She took a shuddery breath and pressed her palm flat between her legs. Arching her back, she felt the tension flood from her muscles.

And then she reached for Stella like a child, begging to be pacified— they would not talk about this any more tonight. 

And Stella held her and kissed her temples and smoothed her hair. They could not escape one another.


End file.
